I’ve just been asked by a major book publisher in the UK if they could include one of my contributions to The Times in their collection of great witticisms.

Darling Wifey is deep in despair.

When the baby falls asleep on the sofa, instead of being called a “slob” by Darling Wifey, she snarls at anyone who dares make a noise that might wake him.

It’s socially acceptable for babies to poo their pants. Even at Pizza Hut.

Every time a baby picks his nose it’s a whole new world of discovery.

When babies grope pretty girls’ breasts, the girls just giggle and say, “Ahh, isn’t he sweet!”

Babies can carry on eating even after they have fallen asleep! (How cool is that?)

Women fight over who gets to bathe the baby.

No-one complains if you fall asleep when you are dragged out shopping for shoes.

1. You begin to identify with Homer Simpson

2. You feel uncomfortable when you can’t pay your credit card balance this month

3. You turn the telly off when the kids go to bed, and it stays off all evening

4. You think that 6:30 am is a good time to get some work done

5. You would rather have an OJ than a second beer

6. You enjoy reading books with Latin titles

7. You plan to spend the weekend cleaning the gutters

8. Having a bad back actually puts you off sex!!!

9. You don’t just remember your mother’s birthday, you remember your mother-in-law’s as well

10. Your daughter has second guessed your objections for getting her ears pierced, and trumped you with five reasons

11. The same daughter gets the computer working whilst you are on the ‘phone to the support centre.

By the way – thanks, Darren for all your hard work on my blog. It looks great!

Little Madam wrote me a message on my pocket computer.

She wrote “I love my daddy.”

She didn’t use the nice, soft, nylon stylus. Oh no. She used a brand new metal (and very, very sharp) ball-point pen.

So now my brain has to go to Germany for two weeks to be repaired.

I have used a pocket computer for six years now – and before that, without my filofax I couldn’t even remember my name. This little machine contains everything, and beeps discreetly to remind me that I have a life.

With my pocket computer in one hand and a cup of hot coffee in the other, I am a genius with encyclopaedic knowledge and Swiftian wit.

Without it, I am a sad, middle-aged no-brainer who can’t find his socks.

Are there any daytime soaps on the telly?

Bad news first thing this morning. Some unworthy pleb has bought the riverside house we wanted.

They don’t deserve it. They won’t appreciate it. They don’t understand the aesthetic responsibilities of living in a house on a riverbank. Will they sit on the terrace drinking Pimm’s on hot nights, watching the boats go by? Will they do it on cold nights as well?

Well, so what if they will? They still don’t deserve it.

Then, I got a message from Dell. Darling Wifey’s new laptop will be delayed by up to seven days because she doesn’t want a white trackpad – she wants a black one. Dell actually had to stop production when they got her message! (This is the woman who tried to persuade me to buy another brand at twice the price because it was “prettier!”)

And they say that women are logical…

We have booked Little Nutter’s haircut: 12:15-3:15 next monday. If you don’t already know, just don’t ask. (Darling Wifey & I will be drinking like fish that night, to recover.)

And Little Madam has just gone to bed wearing rollerblades, a helmet, gloves, elbow and knee pads.

I’ve just bought Darling Wifey a new laptop. (The legal department has instructed me to insert the following disclaimer: I do not hold Darling Wifey responsible for the destruction of the old laptop, nor do I believe that her habit of leaving it on the floor and within easy reach of Little Nutter contributed to its untimely destruction.)

Just before I was allowed to give the Dell website my credit card details to buy her new machine, I actually had to answer this question:

Q4. Will the product(s) be used in connection with weapons of mass destruction, i.e. nuclear applications, missile technology, or chemical or biological weapons purposes?
Yes No

No wonder we can’t find Bin Laden. He could be hiding in a Watergate apartment if that is typical of the anti-terrorism measures being taken…

This past week has seen the hottest temperatures in Britain since the drought of 1976. For those of us still at work, tempers are fraying.

For Little Nutter, it has been a cause of great celebrations. Nursery have had the paddling pools out every day.

This is fine, except for one thing: when I take Little Nutter out of nursery and into the car at the end of the day, he has to walk past the aforementioned dens of pleasure. Yesterday he refused. I had Tiny Flirt in one hand and Little Nutter’s wrist tight in my other – but had to let go to open the car door.

“Yay!” clunk clunk clunk clunk ***SPLASH***

Not much of a dive. More of a belly-flop. An average score of less than 2.4. But he did not care. Little Nutter was now happily playing in six inches of water, fully clothed. Nothing to do but let him play.

After half an hour it was time to go. I strapped Tiny Flirt into his car seat (yes, the aircon was on! I don’t bake my children…) and started to work out a little puzzle: what kind of evil swine of a daddy removes his son from a cool pool on the hottest day of the year?

Easy. Me.

I lifted him out of the pool and into the car – and the fun started. Everything from the back seat was thrown at me. (Except Tiny Flirt – he was strapped in.) By the time we reached the main road, he had run out of ammunition – including his wet clothes. So he managed to remove his seat belt.

Naturally, I stopped the car.

You know those cartoons, where the bad guy is caught inside a box, and you can only see the outside of the box shaking, tipping, and stretching as all hell breaks loose inside…?

After about fifteen minutes the rush hour traffic had backed up all the way into the city centre, as they could only get past me one at a time. One woman pulled up behind me, stopped her car, and got out. As she slammed her door and strode towards me I had a good look at her in the mirror. Her body language told me that I was about to be served a family-sized portion of her mind.

When she reached the car and looked in she saw Little Nutter, stark naked, banging his head against the airbag; me, playing Lemmings on my pocket computer; and Tiny Flirt giggling as he enjoyed the show.

She stopped and turned back to her car. It made my day. Autism – One; Perfect Parent – Nil. Away win.

And just as I was settling in for a long haul Autism-Inspired tantrum, it stopped. Little Nutter found a McDonald’s ketchup portion in the passenger door bin whilst he was looking for more things to throw at me. Like a little angel, he climbed into his seat, fastened the seat-belt (I didn’t know he could do that!) and handed me the little packet with a huge smile and the word “Open” spoken clearly.

I was a proper man today. I abandoned Darling Wifey and went out with the lads. (Well, women are genetically equipped to deal with three children single-handedly. And men need to spend days telling dirty jokes and looking at cars.)

Like a real man does, I got up early with the kids, changed nappies and made breakfast, and made a cup of tea for Darling Wifey. Then I loaded the dishwasher and sorted out some toys for the children. But just to prove how manly I am I didn’t wipe down the kitchen work-surfaces or dress the kids.

So we drove to Croft Circuit for their summer meeting: British Touring Cars; single-seaters from Ford and Renault; the Renaultsport Clio Cup; and finally a dozen Porkers roaring round the track and taking every corner sideways.

On the way down, we swapped manly stories about how our submissive wives meekly allowed us to go to the track for a day:
“Well, as soon as you get home you can cook dinner. My parents are coming round,” said one wife.
“Stop at the supermarket and pick me up some flowers and ice-cream,” said another.
“You can baby-sit after – I’m going out,” said the third.

When we got there, we sat on a nice blanket overlooking the pit straight and starting grid, and we compared sun-creams and had a taste-test of our bottles of mineral water. And we had a nice chat about which pit-lane girl had the nicest hair. (No, really!)

On the way back, we wondered about how much trouble we would be in, for abandoning the homely warmth of our hearths.
“Trish says that she will be going out with the girls next weekend, and expects me to pick them all up from the club at 2am afterwards…”
“Anne will have found something I have forgotten, and will be talking to her friend about divorce…”
“Darling Wifey will have the children waiting for daddy to change nappies, read stories, and then vacuum the carpet…”

Feminism was just a fad, really.

How to shower like a woman

a.. Take off clothing and place in sectioned laundry hamper according to lights and darks.

b.. Walk to bathroom wearing long dressing gown. If you see your husband along the way, cover up any exposed areas. c.. Look at your womanly physique in the mirror-make mental note-must do more sit-ups. Get in the shower. Use face cloth, arm cloth, leg cloth, long loofah, wide loofah and pumice stone.

d.. Wash your hair once with Cucumber and Sage shampoo with 43 added vitamins.

e.. Wash your hair again to make sure it’s clean. Condition your hair with Grapefruit Mint conditioner enhanced with natural avocado oil. Leave on hair for 15 minutes.

f.. Wash your face with crushed apricot facial scrub for ten minutes until red.

g.. Wash entire rest of body with Ginger Nut and Jaffa Cake body wash.

h.. Rinse conditioner off hair (you must make sure that it has all come off).

i.. Shave armpits and legs. Consider shaving bikini area, but decide to get it waxed instead.

j.. Scream loudly when your husband flushes the toilet and you lose the water pressure.

k.. Turn off the shower.

l.. Squeegee off all wet surfaces in shower.

m.. Spray mold spots with Tilex.

n.. Get out of shower. Dry with towel the size of a small country.

o.. Wrap hair in super absorbent second towel.

p.. Check entire body for the remotest sign of a zit, tweeze hairs.

q.. Return to bedroom wearing long dressing gown and towel on head.

r.. If you see your husband along the way, cover up any exposed areas and then sashay to bedroom to spend an hour and a half getting dressed.

PART TWO: HOW TO SHOWER LIKE A MAN

a.. Take off clothes while sitting on the edge of the bed and leave them in a pile. Walk naked to the bathroom.

b.. If you see your wife along the way, shake wiener at her making the “woo-woo” sound.

c.. Look at your manly physique in the mirror and suck in your gut to see if you have pecs (nope!).

d.. Admire the size of your wiener in the mirror and scratch you butt.

e.. Fart.

f.. Get in the shower.

g.. Don’t bother to look for a washcloth (you don’t use one).

h.. Splash little bit of water on your face.

i.. Rub some water on your armpits.

j.. Blow your nose in your hands, then let the water just rinse it off.

k.. Attempt to eat your wife’s Ginger Nut and Jaffa Cake body wash.

l.. Majority of time is spent washing your privates and surrounding area.

m.. Wash your butt, leaving those coarse butt hairs on the soap bar.

n.. Shampoo your hair (do not use conditioner).

o.. Make a shampoo Mohawk.

p.. Peek out of shower curtain to look at yourself in the mirror again.

q.. Pee (in the shower).

r.. Rinse lightly off and get out of the shower.

s.. Fail to notice water on the floor because you left the curtain hanging out of the tub the whole time.

t.. Partially dry off.

u.. Look at yourself in the mirror, flex muscles, admire wiener size again.

v.. Leave shower curtain open and wet bath mat on the floor.

w.. Leave bathroom fan and light on.

x.. Return to the bedroom with towel around your waist.

y.. If you pass your Wife, pull off the towel, shake wiener at her, and make the “woo-woo” sound again. Throw wet towel on the bed.

z.. Get dressed in less than two minutes … and … Fart!

I bought Darling Wifey a great birthday present. Slightly early, but they need careful preparation.

It is a set of moulds for making drinking glasses out of ice. You end up with a small “shot” glass (typical Americanism) with a capacity of 1 / 6 gill (a British-ism) each. The idea is to fill them with a mixer to go with the spirit you are drinking – fresh orange juice if you are drinking vodka, that sort of thing. A great idea at a party…

…but the best bit is that they are melting from the moment you fill them. So as Darling Wifey was swigging her drink last night, she was getting drips of ice-cold water down her cleavage! Delightful!

She tried to get revenge later. She smuggled a half-melted glass into the bedroom and waited until I was half asleep. The thing is, I’m used to cold showers every day, and it was dead easy to steal the ice from her and… ***censored***